Hi Qui Custodiunt Ipsum Custodem
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: The Doctor, as much as he may deny it, needs someone. Jack and Rose are more than happy to oblige. Ten, Jack, and Rose in a series of loosely connected oneshots and character studies.
1. In From the Cold

In From the Cold

Summary: Jack finally catches up with the Doctor, and releases some pent-up anger. The result is not what he expected – but perhaps it should have been. Post-Runaway Bride, pre-Torchwood.

**-DW-**

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in." – Robert Frost

**-DW-**

It took Jack nine months to catch up with the Doctor. That was nothing, next to the century (and then some) that he had spent waiting for their personal time-lines to coincide, but the near-miss at Canary Warf and then the second one on Christmas had ignited a new fervor in his search for the Time Lord. Finally, _finally_, he received a report of a mysterious blue police box on a London street corner – and he was in town.

He screeched to a stop at the address he had been given, his heart racing as he scrambled out of the SUV, barely pausing to slam the door shut behind him. Oh god, if he had gotten away this time . . . .

The TARDIS was still there.

Jack strode up to the time-ship and pounded on the door, not giving himself time to hesitate. "Doctor!" he yelled, not caring how he looked. "Doctor, open up!"

No response.

"You can't hide in there forever!" Actually, he probably could, but that was beside the point. And there was still no answer.

Right. So either the Doctor really was in the TARDIS, hiding until Jack gave up and went away, or he had popped out to save the world or commit genocide or eat chips or whatever the hell he got up to these days. The sensible thing would be to stay here and wait for him to either emerge or return. Jack, however, was not feeling very sensible. He was feeling angry and betrayed and impatient, and he thought that he had an idea where the Doctor was.

The Canary Warf Memorial was nearby.

When he rounded the corner, the first thing he saw was the enormous slab of marble that stood as a gravestone to thousands of dead who could never be buried. The second thing he saw was a sharp brown figure standing in front of it, head bowed and shoulders hunched. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart seemed to stutter in its frantic rhythm. The long coat, the spiky brown hair, the tall, skinny frame . . . oh, god, it was really him.

"Doctor," he said. It was less of challenge than he meant it to be, but his voice was strong and steady.

The Doctor's back snapped straight, but he did not make any other move. Jack stopped a few meters away from him.

"You left me," he stated, and did not wait for a response before continuing, pouring out a hundred and thirty years' worth of resentment. "Do you know how long I waited for you? Three months! Three months on that godforsaken Game Station, and when I finally figure out that you're not coming back and use my vortex manipulator to come back here and find you, where do I end up? _Cardiff_, 1869! I lived through the whole twentieth century waiting for you – all of it, because apparently, I can't die.

"But I think you know that already; don't you, Doctor?" he sneered at the motionless back, scorn dripping from every syllable. "The almighty Doctor doesn't miss a trick, does he? That's why you're here. You always know exactly how many deaths you've caused."

The shoulders twitched at that, just once. The lack of reaction was beginning to grate at Jack's nerves. He was not sure what he had been expecting – anger, maybe, that he dared question the infallible Doctor, or perhaps indifference from the ever-superior Time Lord – but this silence was not it. He was just behind the Doctor in three strides.

"Turn around," he demanded harshly.

The Doctor complied silently. His face, completely new to Jack and yet somehow familiar, was utterly blank, eyes fixed somewhere above Jack's left ear.

"Look at me," snarled Jack, seizing him by his bony shoulders and shaking him roughly.

The Doctor did.

Jack felt every last drop of anger drain out of him as he stared into pair of bottomless brown eyes. _Guilt pain sorrow self-loathing guilt loss loneliness __**guilt**__ – _

Jack had forgotten. He had spent so long alternately glorifying and demonizing the Doctor, dwelling on the laughter and the honor and the compassion, or on the anger and the arrogance and the callousness, that he had forgotten the man. He had forgotten that the Doctor was, fundamentally, broken.

He remembered, now. The face inches from his own was pale and drawn. The body beneath the pinstriped suit was impossibly, unhealthily thin. The shoulders gripped in his strong hands were trembling.

"I'm sorry," said the Doctor, voice thick and eyes anguished. "I'm so sorry, Jack. I couldn't – I wasn't–"

Jack sighed and let go of his shoulders, pulling the Doctor into a one-armed hug.

"Yeah, Doc," he murmured into his old friend's hair (new hair, to go with the new face that was pressed into his neck, the new body that shook as he held it). "I figured it was something like that. C'mon."

The Doctor allowed himself to be led over to a bench, where he explained haltingly, brokenly why Jack was the way he was – and why Rose Tyler was on the list of the dead. He did not cry, though his voice shook in places. Finally, when his tale was finished, he looked up from his clasped hands and met Jack's eyes again.

"You _should_ hate me," he said flatly, resignedly, as if he was agreeing, as if he was granting consent for Jack to pile more guilt onto his too-thin shoulders. He shifted as if to stand, to leave Jack to his life and to get on with his, running and running and running until he bent and buckled and broke under his load.

Jack caught his arm.

"Maybe," Jack stated when the Time Lord shot him a puzzled, wary glance. "Maybe I should. But I think you've got that covered for both of us, don't you?"

The Doctor glanced away, once more avoiding his eyes, and Jack knew. He knew that however much hatred and betrayal and resentment he had harbored for this man over the decades, he would never be able to turn away when he was actually there in front of him, looking exhausted and regretful and defeated. As much as Jack, in his darker moments, liked to think himself bruised and battered and damaged by his century and a half of love and life and loss, he could not hold a candle to the shattered mess of flames and darkness and jagged edges that was the Doctor.

What he could do was offer a little bit of the forgiveness that the Doctor would never grant himself, and try his very best to prevent complete self-destruction. And he could start right now.

"C'mon, Doc," he said, in a fairly good approximation of his usual good-natured tone. "I still haven't bought you that drink."


	2. Last Resorts

Notes: For those of you who here in search of something a bit more Rose-scented, be assured that she will appear in the next installment.

For Iyokaan, and anyone else who was wondering: the title (as you may know) is a modification of a Latin phrase. It translates literally as "Those who Guard the Guard Himself" or more idiomatically as "Those who Watch the Watchman." While not every oneshot will completely fulfill that title, I believe that taken all together they will present a picture of Jack and Rose protecting the Doctor just as he protects the Universe.

**-DW-**

Last Resorts

Summary: Jack and the Doctor discuss weapons, and things get heated. Unfortunately, that is not nearly as euphemistic as it sounds.

Warnings: a couple swearwords, including one rather strong one. Also, Captain Jack.

**-DW-**

Jack sat on the grating in the console room, elbow-deep in the Doctor's coat pocket. He had volunteered to help the Doctor with his more-or-less constant repairs, but it turned out that the particular problem the Time Lord was in the middle of sorting was one of the few things that Jack was actually incapable of assisting him with. After their last, rather traumatic escapade in Royal Hope Hospital (and the Doctor's latest attempt at fulfilling his death wish), he was unwilling to let his friend out of his sight for too long.

Still, listening to the Doctor mutter to himself and curse in alien languages was only entertaining for so long, so Jack had settled down with the intent of going through the Doctor's dimensionally transcendental pockets. So far, he had discovered, among other things: three wind-up toys, a box of everlasting matches, a vacuum-sealed protein bar (which he ate), a handful of loose candies (which he didn't), several unlabeled bottles and unidentifiable bits of machinery, and a banana.

"Doctor?"

"Mm?" came the absent reply from somewhere beneath the grating.

"Do you always carry a banana?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes. Surprisingly useful. Never know when you might need one."

"How often do you switch them out?" asked Jack, frowning at the perfectly ripe fruit.

"I don't. Time Lord trick." His voice was distracted, his mind obviously not on the conversation. "It's trapped in a moment."

Jack blinked in the vague direction of the Doctor's voice, then eyed the fruit again.

". . . . right." He was silent for a few minutes, fishing around in the depths of the coat. He extracted five rings of various designs (a couple of which looked suspiciously marital), and eleven small articles of clothing before he spoke again. "Is this my sock?"

"Ah . . ." The Doctor climbed up to floor level, his hair standing on end and his suit rumpled, and eyed the indicated footwear. "Possibly."

"Funny, you never struck me as the fetish type. But hey, if that's your kink –"

"I can't be responsible for where your things end up, Jack," said the Doctor, turning away and slipping on his glasses as he adjusted the monitor.

"If they're in your pockets, I'm pretty sure you can," Jack retorted, with more amusement than irritation. "Seriously, when was the last time you cleaned out this thing?"

"Well, you never know what will come in handy."

"Sure," said Jack, taking that to mean 'never.' "But, y'know, I really can't imagine a situation where the fate of the Universe would depend on half a manicure kit and a stale Jammy Dodger."

The Doctor scowled at him. "_I _can think of at least a dozen," he said huffily. "Besides, it's not as if the state of my pockets is a top priority of mine. What about you?" He bounded across the room and snatched up Jack's greatcoat from where it was draped across one of the struts. "What's in Captain Jack Harkness' pockets?"

"Doctor –" Jack began, springing up, because he knew what the Doctor would find, and it wouldn't do anything good or useful for either of them, not when they had only just mended the hurt between them.

"No, no," the Doctor scolded, dodging out of reach with an agility that belied his gangly appearance. "Turnabout is fair play, Captain!" he sang cheerfully, digging into the pockets of Jack's coat. "Now what do we have here . . ."

Jack watched tensely, and he knew the exact moment when the Doctor found it. It only took a few seconds, because he was the Doctor, and _of course_ his clever fingers would slip past the money and condoms and keys and land on the one thing that he wasn't supposed to know about. The Doctor froze. A myriad of emotions flickered over his face before it went blank. He slowly withdrew his hand from the pocket, and held up a small, vaguely gun-shaped object.

"Jack," he said, with deadly calm. "Why is this in your pocket?"

"Look, Doc, I can explain," said Jack, holding up his hands in surrender (or maybe defense).

"Oh, please do."

Jack's stomach turned at the steel in the Doctor's eyes, the silky smoothness in his voice. It was the kind of voice he used when he was holding himself in complete control, because he didn't trust himself not to do something he'd regret. It was the kind of voice he used when he was beyond furious.

It was the kind of voice he used with enemies.

"I confiscated it from a Stoian bounty hunter a few months ago. I stuck in my pocket, but then his friend started shooting and I was distracted. Never got around to dealing with it."

The Doctor eyed him with that look of his that made Jack wonder just how telepathic he was.

"No," he said at last. "You would never be that careless with a weapon. Try again."

"Worth a shot," Jack said, with a half-hearted imitation of his usual grin. The Doctor didn't smile back, and Jack sighed. "I _did_ confiscate it from a bounty hunter. I kept it in my pocket to keep it out of reach of my team. They're good people, but they don't always get the significance of stuff like this."

"But you do," said the Doctor, and it wasn't a question. "You know exactly what this is, so why didn't you destroy it the first chance you got?"

"Because it's useful."

"_Useful?_" growled the Doctor, his pseudo-calm evaporating in an instant. "This is a cellular degenerator! It's illegal in every sector! It's the reason I destroyed the weapons factories in Villengard!"

"And it's saved my ass more than once!" snapped Jack, refusing to be quailed by the burning in the Doctor's eyes. "You know as well as I do that not everyone can be talked down, but they're a hell of a lot more likely to go quietly if the other option is a slow death instead of a quick bullet to the head."

"That doesn't excuse it," said the Doctor coldly, and Jack wanted to shake him. He could never understand how a man who made all Jack's lines waver and fade and reform into a million shades of grey could see some things in such black-and-white terms.

"Oh, don't get all self-righteous," he snarled in frustration. "It's not as if you're a pacifist."

"_I_ don't carry a gun."

"You don't have to! You just whip out your goddamn screwdriver and dismantle a toaster and the next thing you know a whole factory complex is fucking incinerated!"

"A factory complex, not a person!"

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," said Jack scornfully. "You think I haven't read the Canary Warf files? How many Cybermen and Daleks did you suck into the Void? Millions? Billions?"

"Those weren't people," said the Doctor, and his voice was cold and dangerous, his eyes dark and ancient. A hundred years ago, Jack might have backed down at that, but not now.

"No?" he asked sharply, ignoring the irrational trickle of fear that ran down his back, the wild thought that if anyone could figure out a way to kill him, it would be the Doctor. "What about the others? What about that werewolf with Queen Victoria? What about those bat aliens at Deffry Vale? What about the Plasmavore yesterday? You might not have killed her, but you sure as hell engineered her death."

"Would you rather I hadn't?" asked the Doctor angrily. "Would you rather I'd let her kill half the planet, or the Krillitanes destroy the Universe, or the werewolf take over the Earth?"

"Of course not! All I'm saying is that you can't get pissed at me for doing the same thing!"

"_It's not the same thing!_" insisted the Doctor, and there was something like desperation in his voice and his eyes and his white-knuckled grip on the degenerator. "I don't go in there planning to kill them! It's _always_ a last resort!"

"You think it isn't for me?" Jack shouted right back. "You think I _like_ killing people?"

"No! But this is _cruel_, Jack." The Doctor gestured with the degenerator, drawing Jack's attention back to the original point of conflict. "This is _designed_ to cause the most painful death possible!"

"More painful than burning to death?"

The Doctor flinched as though struck, all color draining from his face as the degenerator clattered to the floor from his suddenly limp fingers. Too late, Jack realized the double meaning in his words.

"That was – I couldn't –" the Doctor babbled frantically, shaking his head in denial and backing away, the powerful alien being of moments ago replaced by the broken, vulnerable man who always shivered behind the Doctor's shields.

"Doctor, I'm sorry; that's not what I meant," said Jack, his anger softening as the Doctor came to halt against one of the coral struts. He looked impossibly fragile as he trembled, pale from the blood loss on the moon, still unhealthily skinny and obviously exhausted despite all of Jack's efforts to make him eat and sleep properly. "I was just talking about Villengard, I swear."

"There was no other way," the Doctor said, voice cracking, and Jack wasn't sure which event he was talking about or who he was trying to convince.

"I know, Doc," Jack sighed, pulling his friend into an embrace. He held him silently, waiting for his ragged breathing to even out. When the Doctor finally calmed, he spoke again, his tone somewhere between teasing and annoyed. "You're impossible to fight with, you know that?"

The Doctor chuckled against his neck, weak and shaky but genuine.

"You were having a pretty good go at it just now."

"Yeah," Jack snorted, "for about two minutes. Then you blink those big brown eyes at me and I melt into a mushy pile of sentimentalism."

It was the Doctor's turn to snort as he pulled away, composure regained and mask of 'always alright' back in place.

"We still have to deal with that," he said, gesturing at the degenerator where it had fallen on the grating. "I won't have it in the TARDIS."

"I know. I've actually been meaning to get rid of it, but I haven't gotten the chance."

"Right," said the Doctor flatly. He pulled out his sonic and aimed it at the weapon, sending up a shower of sparks. "Now you're rid of it." He stepped around Jack and moved back to the console without looking at him.

Jack watched as he fiddled with a couple controls. It was obvious from the set of his shoulders that he was still angry, but also obvious that he wasn't going to bring it up again anytime soon. The silence grew steadily more awkward, until Jack had to break it.

"I never used it, you know."

"Never used what?" asked the Doctor, with a fairly good impression of inattention. Jack rolled his eyes at his evasion, but continued.

"The degenerator. I only ever threatened with it. Never even took the safety off."

"I know."

"What?" asked Jack, taken aback.

"I know," the Doctor repeated, not looking up. "The battery panel is rusted; it hasn't been replaced in years. It would have been in better shape if you had used it."

"You knew that this whole time?"

"Yes."

"Then why –?"

"Just because it hasn't been used doesn't mean it couldn't be," the Doctor snapped over his shoulder. A moment later he deflated, sighing tiredly and running a hand over his face. He turned to face Jack, eyes meeting his and stopping any protest before it could start. "There's always that temptation. You tell yourself you won't, but then you're looking at someone who's done such terrible things – hurt so many people. And you think, 'it would be so, so easy' – just the flick of thumb and the twitch of a finger. All it takes is a moment. One moment when vengeance is more important than morals, when vengeance _seems _moral, and then you can never go back."

Jack looked into eyes that were dark and ancient and pained, and got the feeling that they weren't talking about the degenerator anymore. He wondered just what kinds of guns had been wielded by a race that could bend time to their will just to keep their fruit fresh. A shiver ran up his spine.

"I understand," he said.

The Doctor nodded.

"Good." He began to turn back to the console.

"But I'm keeping the revolver," Jack added. The Doctor stopped and raised an eyebrow at him, questioning but no longer confrontational. "If you get the sonic, I get at least one gun."

"Fair enough," agreed the Doctor. "But _only_ as a last resort!" he clarified sharply, pointing at Jack.

Jack's mind flickered to the image of the plasmavore incinerated by Judoon, caught in a trap that had nearly cost the Doctor his life; to the Cybermen and Daleks – millions of them, billions – sucked into Hell, condemned by a plan that had cost the Doctor the one thing that was holding him together. But . . . there had been other days. Days that didn't leave destruction behind them and tear the Doctor to pieces. Days when everybody lived. Jack couldn't help remembering a Slitheen assassin who had gotten her wish for a second chance, and a cocksure ex-Time Agent conman, still young enough to think his cynicism was wisdom, who had gotten his own version of rebirth.

"Yeah," he said at last, placing a firm hand on the Doctor's too-thin shoulder and trying to let his eyes communicate everything the Time Lord couldn't handle him saying aloud. "A last resort. Always."


	3. There's a Pair of Us

Notes: Thank you to all my reviewers, and particularly Iyokaan, who helpfully pointed out some errors in my Latin. Apparently my brain decided that two days was plenty of time to forget everything that I've learned in four years of Latin class.

The poetry is an excerpt from Emily Dickinson's poem I'm nobody! Who are you? and I do not own it even a little bit.

**-DW-**

There's a Pair of Us

Summary: After the Battle of Canary Wharf, Rose Tyler does not fall into a deep dark pit of depression and despair. She has her family, and a job, and something resembling a life. She is not, however, as happy as she once was. (Fix-it.)

**-DW-**

_I'm nobody! Who are you?_

_Are you nobody, too?_

_Then there's a pair of us – don't tell!_

_They'd banish us, you know._

- Emily Dickinson

**-DW-**

She drifts.

She does not fool herself by thinking that she will never be happy again. She is not a teenager anymore, and already there are moments – when she saves someone's life; when her little brother smiles at her – when she thinks that maybe this could be a bit fantastic after all.

But she also does not fool herself by thinking that she will ever have what she once did. She will never have the rush of running for her life or her planet or her Universe with no weapon, no backup, no plan. She will never have the thrill of feeling an icy hand in hers and seeing a manic grin that speaks of danger and adventure and adrenaline. She will never have the quiet ache of loving a man who belongs to Time and Pain and the Universe, joy and sorrow so intertwined in her heart that she can barely tell the difference.

So she drifts. She goes to work and comes home and grabs onto her fleeting moments of happiness. One day, she will stop feeling so numb. She will stop having a moment of disorientation when she awakes in a room that does not hum in greeting. She will stop finding the warmth of a human hand in hers strange.

She tries not to dread that day.

On this day, something at Torchwood has gone wrong. She is not sure what it is, but everyone is pouring up the stairs from the basement, so it must be in the laboratories. She leaps down the steps two at a time, thinking vaguely that there may be something wrong with her survival instincts. She hits the floor at the bottom with both feet, and throws open the nearest door.

Everything goes a bit funny, and she is not sure if it is her or the Universe. Everything is twisting a warping and spinning and then –

There are two people that she never thought she would see again. The man who was dead smiles at her, with eyes that are older than they should be but still carry the mischievous glint that she remembers, and steps back. The man who was lost just stares, with his mouth hanging open and his hair on end and his eyes wide and shocked and vulnerable, and she thinks that she has never seen anything more wonderful.

She smiles, and suddenly he is hugging her, and his grip is tight and clinging and more than a little desperate, and the laughter that tickles her ear is high-pitched and hysterical and just this side of sane, but that is alright. In all her time away from him, she never forgot that, as much as she loves him, as much as he cares for her in return, the Doctor is not and will never be whole. He is still and will always be cracked and hurting and lonely, wandering and homeless and lost.

For now, though, they can be lost together.


	4. The Beginning is a New End

The Beginning is a New End

Summary: Jack discovers that sometimes when one door opens, another slams shut on your face.

Warnings: some swearing, drunkenness, and Captain Jack.

**-DW-**

Kilur was a nice little planet, really, the odd megalomaniac aside. Jack had been in worse places, certainly.

They had saved the planet earlier that day, in a surprisingly quick and bloodless escapade. Following the interruption to what he had promised would by a perfectly harmless trip to get parts for the TARDIS, the Doctor had taken a look at his companions' irritated expressions and, in one of those startlingly prudent moves that made Jack wonder just how much of his obliviousness was feigned, ushered them over the planet's one and only nightlife.

Jack had split off from the other two, intent on taking care of some of his more . . . personal needs. They had waved him off with nearly identical knowing looks, and he had proceeded to stop at three bars and flirt with eleven individuals of various species, only to slide into his fourth bar at about four in the morning (local time) with nothing to show for his efforts but lighter pockets, a slight buzz of alcohol, and a creeping gloominess in his chest.

He tried to tell himself that he was just out of practice, but it was more than that and he knew it. It was incredibly difficult to successfully pick up a person when all he could think about was whether or not Rose had gotten the Doctor onto the dance floor and if alcohol affected Time Lords.

Still, he had needs, and he wasn't going to satisfy them by moping. He'd just pick someone here, pull out all the stops, and if that didn't work, then he was done. Officially. The end; kaput.

He scanned the bar for a likely candidate.

The Inulare in the corner was out - he wasn't really in the mood for tentacles tonight. The giggling girls who filled a table near the door were far too young, even by his admittedly loose standards. The humanoid man at the end of the bar was an option . . . until he looked up, and the combination of dark glare and blue eyes sent uncomfortable shivers of familiarity down Jack's spine. He did not need any help thinking about the Doctor tonight.

Further down the bar was an utterly gorgeous Vinvocci woman, alone, regarding the bottom of a glass sullenly. Obviously, she was in a very bad mood – she had probably broken up with someone recently, or else some other misfortune had befallen her. Hitting on her was likely to get him either a very good night of no-strings-attached rebound sex, or a swift kick in the groin.

He had always been a bit of a gambler.

"Hey," he greeted, sliding up next to her and giving her grin number thirty-six, Life-Sucks-But-Aren't-I-Handsome. "Looks like you need that. Let me buy the next one?"

She shifted slightly to look at him, scanning him critically from head to toe. Her eyes lingered unashamedly on his crotch, chest, and jaw line, but also brightened with interest when they landed on his vortex manipulator. The recognition marked her as intelligent as well as beautiful – the night was becoming more promising.

"Alright then. Have at it. I'm Aurelane, by the way."

"Captain Jack Harkness. So," he said casually, signaling the barkeep for two of whatever she was having. Its remnants were a thick amber at the bottom of her glass, Kilurine whisky, if he had to guess. Strong stuff, but nothing he couldn't handle. "What's a lovely Vinvocci like you doing all alone?" The wonderful thing about being a time and space traveler: lines that were cliché on twenty-first century Earth were original on thirty-second century Kilur.

"I split up with my boyfriend today."

"I'm sorry," said Jack, with sympathetic look number three, Don't-You-Just-Hate-It-When-That-Happens.

"Don't be," said the Aurelane, and seemed to mean it. "He was an idiot. Tried to lie to me."

"Ah," said Jack with nod number twelve, I'm-Sure-That-Made-Sense-To-You-And-I-Probably-Agree. He had a lot of practice at that one. In came in handy dealing with women anywhere in the Universe, not to mention the Doctor.

"I'm an empath," she elaborated.

"_Ah_," he repeated, this time with genuine understanding. "He really is an idiot, then. You're better off without him."

The amused look she shot him made him think that maybe that particular line wasn't reserved to twenty-first century Earth. He'd have to look into expanding his repertoire.

"So, _Captain_ Jack." She said his title with a degree of sarcasm which it was probably due, seeing as he hadn't actually captained a ship in over a century. He wondered vaguely how developed of an empath she was, and just how much she had seen inside his head. Not too much, he decided, because she hadn't run in the other direction yet, but evidently enough to realize that his title was honorary at best. "What brings a Time Agent like you to a little nothing of a place like this?"

"I'm not really a Time Agent," he said, with grin number twenty-five, Ain't-Nothing-Gonna-Tie-Me-Down. "More of a . . . freelancer." And didn't that give him flashbacks to 1941 and invisible Chula warships? He really needed to stop recycling lines, particularly when they made him think of a certain off-limits blonde and made it difficult to focus on a possibly within-limits Vinvocci.

"Stole that, then, did you?" she asked, sounding unfazed as she gestured at his vortex manipulator with her glass.

"Something like that," he said, shooting her smirk number eight, I'm-A-Bit-Dangerous-And-Isn't-That-Exciting, from behind his glass. The alcohol burned as it went down, one of those familiar/distant feelings which he had often indulged in on Earth, but rarely experienced in his travels with the Doctor.

"Hm. You still haven't answered my question. Why are you here, Captain Jack Harkness?"

"I'm travelling," said Jack. It was probably the truest answer he could give, even if it was a gross understatement.

"Alone?" asked Aurelane.

"With friends." He kept his tone and expression nonchalant, but the shrewd look she gave him told him that she had picked up on at least some of the maelstrom of emotions that accompanied his words. Thankfully, she didn't press for details.

"What sort of ship?" she asked instead.

"It's – not mine." He was starting to remember why he usually avoided empaths. It was inordinately difficult to talk to someone he couldn't lie to.

"It's not stolen too, is it?" she asked, raising an eyebrow in a not entirely disapproving manner.

"Not . . . exactly." Actually, some of the comments the Doctor had made lead him to believe that maybe it was, but he always managed to let things like that slip at immensely inconvenient times. Jack half-suspected that he did it on purpose, to keep him and Rose from pursuing the topic. Evasive bastard. "What about you? Do you live around here?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Aurelane sighed. "I put twenty years into the best education in the galaxy, and where do I end up? Some godforsaken rock on the outskirts of civilization." She took a long swig of whiskey. "Still, it's not so bad," she continued thoughtfully. "It's a nice enough planet. Peaceful. Just not a lot to _do_, that's all."

Jack knew an opening when he saw when.

"Well, Aurelane," he purred, moving their glasses out of the way and leaning forward so that his lips brushed her ear as his hand crept up her thigh. "I can think of a few things we could be doing."

She didn't slap him or pull away in disgust, which was the usual response when he was that forward with a woman who wasn't interested, so he was surprised when she gently removed his hand from her leg and smiled at him sympathetically.

"Sorry, Captain, but that's not going to happen."

"Why not?" he asked, too confused to come up with a more tactful way of asking it. He had been having bad luck all night, but couldn't think of any obvious blunder he had made this time around.

"Because you've been thinking about someone else half the time you've been here," she said bluntly. Jack winced, and her gaze softened. "Look, honey, empath or no, that kills the mood. Whoever it is, I can't tell if you want to protect him, shag him, or impress him, but I'm not going to be your distraction, substitute, or tool. It's a pity," she added sincerely, eying him regretfully. "You're not half bad."

"Sorry," said Jack, managing to muster up grimace number two, I'm-A-Bit-Of-An-Idiot.

"It's alright," said Aurelane with a shrug, standing. "You're the most interesting person I've met all week, even if you were giving half-truths the whole time. Thanks for the drink."

"No problem," he said, trying for grin number eleven, Anytime,-Sweetheart, and failing.

"Cheer up," she said, before she turned away. "That girl in the corner is a bit desperate, if you're into tentacles."

A moment later she was out the door, and he was signaling the barkeep for another whiskey.

Half an hour later and just drunk enough to loosen his tongue and make him maudlin, he let his head drop onto the bar with a dull thump.

"Alright there, mate?" asked the barkeep after a few minutes, sounding more amused than concerned.

"This is it," said Jack glumly, his voice slightly muffled by the wood. "This is the end of Captain Jack Harkness. The Doctor has officially stolen my mojo."

"Has he?" asked the barkeep.

"Yep," said Jack with conviction, pulling himself upright again and catching himself before he fell off his stool. "Used to be, I could get a one-night stand in my sleep. Literally, once. Now _that_ was an awkward morning."

The barkeep hummed in agreement, watching him with laughing eyes as he wiped down some glasses.

"But now –" Jack gestured expansively with his glass. A bit of whiskey sloshed over his hand. "I haven't had a proper shag in _three months_. Or maybe two. Or one. A long time, anyway. And that thing with the plant on Gindrin V doesn't count. It's not like the Doctor's ever gonna shag me. I don't even know if he's comp – compat – compatil – if he can shag humans.

"And I make him ill, anyway," he sighed, examining the way the grain of the wood was warped by the bottom of his glass. That was probably symbolic, but he couldn't think what of. "He says he doesn't mind, but he'd say when he had a . . . a painful thing in his chest if he thought it'd make me feel better. Self-sacring – sacrificing idiot."

He dropped his head onto the bar again, his thoughts oozing sluggishly. It eventually occurred to him that he thought there was somewhere he was supposed to be.

"What time is it?" he asked, lifting his head with effort.

"Nine past Elfdor," The barkeep answered. "You have somewhere you need to be?"

"Dunno," said Jack with a frown. "Think so. Feels important."

"Maybe it has something to do with that self-sacrificing idiot of yours," the barkeep suggested.

"Probably," Jack agreed with a heavy sigh. "Everything does, these days. Probably got himself into trouble again. Always doing that. Then I've gotta go save him. 'Cept when he saves me. That happens too. Usually his fault though."

He got to his feet with a bit of a stumble and dug around in his coat for money, continuing his rant as he tossed the credits on the counter and weaved towards the door. "'Peaceful planet,' he says. 'Nothing can possibly go wrong,' he says. Next thing y'know we're dangling upside-down over a pit of boiling lava . . . ."

He trailed off as the cold night air hit his face and he stared around the street, trying to remember what he was looking for. Oh, that's right. The Doctor. It was always the Doctor, but at least now he knew where to look.

To his surprise, the Doctor was actually where he was supposed to be, more or less. When they had split up at the beginning of the night – the Doctor stating firmly that whatever Jack got up to, he didn't want to know about it, and Rose threatening to hide the tea if the Doctor didn't come to the clubs with her – they had agreed to meet at a small courtyard in the middle of the street. The courtyard itself was deserted, but it didn't take Jack long to spot a familiar silhouette at the end of the street.

He started towards it, but faltered, because he wasn't too drunk to recognize the Doctor's stance. The normally energetic Time Lord stood utterly still, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped. His face was turned towards the sky, and Jack knew that if he looked his eyes would be blank and distant and empty.

These were the moments that Jack dreaded. He could keep up with the running and slow them down when it was needed (most of the time). He could face the danger and take a bullet (or laser blast, or arrow, or explosion) without hesitation. He could even deal with the moments in between, could counter the anger and distract from the guilt and dull the grief (even if, with the Doctor, the relief he offered was shallow and fleeting and never, ever enough). This, though . . . he was never quite sure what to do when he left the Doctor alone for a moment (that was all the time it took) and came back to find him lost in the silence in his head and the spaces where stars used to be.

Luckily, he didn't need to be. Only seconds later Rose emerged from one of the clubs, looking a little tipsy herself. She slowed as she caught sight of the Doctor's expression, but moved forward and took his hand. Jack was close enough that he could hear her murmuring to him, soft and soothing, but he couldn't quite make out the words. He would bet that 'I love you' was in there somewhere. Probably 'it's alright,' also, because when Rose said it, it almost sounded true.

The Doctor still hadn't moved, except to return Rose's grip on his hand. Rose glanced back, meeting Jack's eyes. There were no numbers for these gestures, but their meanings were crystal clear._ Please help; he's hurting._

Jack moved forward, swallowing the irritation and resentment and bruised pride of a few minutes ago. Tonight might have seen the end of Captain Jack Harkness, Intergalactic Playboy, but there were far more important things in the Universe.

He wrapped his own strong, warm hand around the Doctor's icy, slender one and squeezed lightly. The Doctor closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. When he opened them again, they were expressive and focused and _full_, even if the happiness in them was brittle and the joy was bittersweet.

"Come on, then," said the Doctor, with a smile that was less toothy than usual and all the more genuine for it. "Back to the TARDIS. We've places to be."

Oh, yes. Definitely more important things.


	5. Memory

Memory

Summary: The Bad Wolf lets the singing drown out the burning, the Forever Man holds on to what he can, and the Oncoming Storm has no shelter from himself.

**-DW-**

Rose Tyler is twenty-four (give or take a few months for timey-wimeyness) and she is very selective in what she remembers. She has a job in their dysfunctional little family – she's the idealist to Jack's cynic, the mercy to the Doctor's ruthlessness, the light to their darkness – and she can't manage that if she remembers everything that she's seen and done and learned.

When it's necessary, or unavoidable, she remembers that she is never going to see her parents or her little brother again, that Jack is doomed a bleak, lonely life of immortality because of her actions, that the Doctor is always, always teetering on the knife-edge between genius and madness, self-sacrifice and self-destruction.

The rest of the time, Rose forgets.

**-DW-**

Jack Harkness is one-hundred and seventy-seven (he thinks, though it's a bit hard to keep track), and he forgets everything he can afford to. Human minds are not meant to hold more than about a century's worth of information, and while Jack is not stupid by any stretch, he's not a genius, either.

Strangely enough, the things he forgets seem to have nothing to do with when they happened. He can't remember his Torchwood password or the name of the last person he slept with or even what his _own_ name was before he was called Jack Harkness, but he can remember the suffocating feeling as he watched despair grow in Suzie's eyes the days before he left and the thrill of the Doctor's icy lips on his before he died for the first time and the last words Gray said to him before the Invasion changed everything.

Jack never forgets the important things.

**-DW-**

The Doctor is nine hundred years old (he's been telling his companions and himself for so long that he very nearly believes it), and he can't let himself forget anything. He just sorts his memories into boxes and shuffles them around in his head, with labels that says things like 'CAUTION' and 'DO NOT DISTURB' and 'IMPORTANT.'

Unfortunately, some – most – important, useful things, like how to fight Cybermen and pilot the TARDIS and dance, are all mixed up with messy, painful things, like Adric and Romana and Reinette, and he can't look at Jack without feeling his stillness and knowing that there are things far worse than death, and he can't look at Rose without feeling Time flowing and knowing that death and its inevitability are plenty terrible in and of themselves, and he can't look at his own hands without seeing the blood of a thousand species, hearing the screams of his people echoing in the emptiness where his planet used to be –

The Doctor never, ever forgets.


	6. Mutually Assured Destruction

Mutually Assured Destruction

Summary: The Doctor is just as caught by his companions as they are by him, but perhaps that's not such a terrible thing.

**-DW-**

The Doctor is addictive. Rose Tyler realized this almost as soon as she met him, as soon as she felt the rush in her stomach and the adrenaline in her veins. It isn't the danger, no matter what her mother said – it's him. It's his manic grin, his unpredictability, his tantalizing hints which leave her feeling that there is some wonderful, terrible truth that he's hiding, if she can just push a little – bit – farther –

That was why she said no, when he asked her the first time. She could feel herself falling, and she knew, she _knew_ that if she went with him, if she took the challenge in his eyes and chased the dreams in hers, then she would never, ever stop. She wasn't one to shy away from getting hurt – she had broken her hand on Harry Jacobson's stupid, boney face when she was eight, and had broken her arm on Mickey's bike when she was eleven, and had broken her heart and her pride and her future on Jimmy Stone's lies when she was sixteen – but while she was no stranger to playing with fire, if Jimmy was a candle, the Doctor is the sun.

Still, she couldn't resist when he asked her again.

**-DW-**

The Doctor is irresistible. Jack Harkness didn't realize this until his first night aboard the TARDIS, when it finally occurred to him that he had nearly died and his biggest concern was impressing the prickly, stand-offish alien whom he had just met. It's impossible not to get swept up in his contagious enthusiasm, his unthinking selflessness, his unwavering nobility. By the time you're close enough to see the underlying darkness – the desperation in his energy, the self-loathing in his sacrifice, the ruthlessness in his heroics – you're already in far too deep.

That was the only reason he allowed himself to be dragged along, at first. He knew that he was caught, by a charmer even more skilled than he was, and the Doctor didn't even try at it. Jack wasn't one to give up control easily – he had left home, and later the Time Agency, to preserve his freedom – but there was nothing he could do against the Doctor, the last of a legendary race, a man who promised adventure and knowledge and a chance at redemption and only asked for loyalty and some degree of respect in return.

Later, he couldn't deny him the forgiveness which he had so readily granted.

**-DW-**

Love is overwhelming. The Doctor has realized this repeatedly over his long life, but was reminded most recently by an impossibly young human girl who would give up everything to save his life, and an impossibly old human man who would give up his anger and hurt and betrayal to save the tattered remnants of his soul. No matter how many times he tries to smother it to protect his own hearts – because he's not sure how many more times they can break before he shatters – and his friends' lives – because he _is_ sure that no one who loves him remains unscathed for long – he can never stop himself from craving it, the warmth and the comfort and the acceptance. However fleeting it may be, however much it hurts everyone involved in the end, he can never turn away from the offer of a hand to hold.

That was why he asked Rose a second time, why he accepted the Jack's forgiveness which he could never deserve. He knew that he needed someone, could feel himself beginning to crumble under the weight of his memories and knowledge and responsibility. The Doctor isn't one to acknowledge weakness if he can avoid it – he made it through the Academy and a good portion of the rest of his life by virtue of overconfidence of alone – but anyone he takes on as a companion is clever and brave and strong-willed enough to see through his mask and batter down his shields.

At the moment, he can't quite bring himself to regret it.


	7. Alternatives

Notes: Contains quotes from the End of Time Part II and the Parting of the Ways. (Jack's lines in the third section are expanded on in my AU oneshot, He Who Fights with Monsters.)

Alternatives

Summary: They sometimes catch glimpses of things which didn't happen, and things which may yet come to pass.

Warnings: brief, vague mention of domestic abuse.

**-DW-**

"_The Could've Been King, with his army of Meanwhiles and Neverweres."_

**-DW-**

In the palace of King Julani V, there is a fortune teller with fine, flowing silver hair a glowing white eyes. She gives a grin which is as wide as the Doctor's and just as empty, and states,

"There are other places, you know.

"Someplace else, Rose Tyler never came to her senses. Jimmy got carried away one night, and she never woke up."

Rose feels herself pale.

"Another place, Captain Jack Harkness never existed as you know him. A boy died on Boeshane, and his younger brother lived."

Jack flinches as though struck.

"Somewhere not too far from here, Theta never left Koschei's side. They stood together and watched the Universe burn."

The Doctor's breath catches.

They leave as quickly as possible. None of them ask.

**-DW-**

On a research satellite in the sixty-third century, they encounter a substance which is harmless to humans but has some extremely adverse effects on Time Lords. One of them is delirium.

"Rose?" he rasps out, in one of his more lucid moments. "Rose, what are you doing here? You can't be here; I lost you . . ."

"You found me again, remember?" says Rose with a forced smile, brushing back his sticky, sweat-soaked hair from his face. "You and Jack, you came and got me."

"No, no, Jack's gone too; I ran away; I left him . . . . Martha. Where's Martha?"

"Who's Martha?" asks Rose. He's mentioned old companions before, but this isn't a name that she recognizes. She prays that, whoever she is, she's one of the ones who went home safely, of her own free will.

"She's brilliant, Martha," he says, with a shaky grin. "Almost-Doctor Martha Jones." His grin fades, his eyes dark beneath the sheen of the fever. "She thinks she's in love with me. She thinks that she can fix me, that she can heal me. I'm only going to hurt her in the end."

His eyes roll back in his head. The next time he wakes, he's babbling about his ties and demanding random pieces of fruit. It is several days before he recovers and Rose gets the chance to ask him about Martha Jones.

"Martha Jones . . ." he repeats, looking thoughtful and leaning back in his chair. "Rings a bell. Let's see, Martha Jones, Martha Jones . . . ."

"Isn't that the medical student we ran into in Royal Hope?" asks Jack as he enters the kitchen.

"Oh, yes!" exclaims the Doctor, grinning delightedly, as if he came up with answer himself. "Brilliant woman, quick thinker. Very fast on her feet."

"Not bad to look at either," adds Jack with a leer, and then they're off again, bickering about libidos and one-track minds and 'can't a guy appreciate beauty when he sees it?'

Rose doesn't bring it up again.

**-DW-**

In the underground lair of a megalomaniac on some far distant moon, they are captured and placed in separate containers, with wires attached to their heads and snaking into their brains. It's all hooked up to some strange machine which, according to the Doctor, is somehow monitoring timelines.

Rose dreams that she never lost her grip on that lever. She mourns the mother whom she will never see again, and runs and runs and runs, with the Doctor at her side and the whole Universe in front of her. It's too good to be true and they both know it, know that they're lying to each other and to themselves, but neither wants to stop for long enough to face their demons. No one can keep running that fast for long, though, no one human anyway, and eventually, Rose is that crucial second too slow.

She jerks back to consciousness with the afterimage of the energy bolt burnt into her retinas and the Doctor's anguished scream echoing in her ears. Jack is in front of her, looking more shaken than she's ever seen him as he frees her from the device.

"Rose," he gasps, pulling her into a tight embrace. "Oh, god, I dreamed you were – I never even met you; you were already – in Utah, with a Dalek – and the Doctor – that Delta Wave – he was –" He cuts himself off, sets her back down, and clears his throat, visibly pulling himself together. "We need to find the Doctor."

They do find him, but only after they've taken care of the megalomaniac and his followers. Which is a good thing, as it turns out, because the Doctor is in no state to defeat anyone. Rose has to support him as Jack detaches him from the contraption, because he's shaking too badly to stand on his own. Once the last of the wires is removed, he collapses into a heap on the floor, choking and sobbing and babbling frantically in a language the TARDIS won't translate. It is long minutes before they can calm him enough to speak English again.

He never tells them what he dreamed.

**-DW-**

"_. . . all that ever could be."_

**-DW-**

In a café in London in the near future, there is a dark-skinned, middle aged woman who keeps shooting them nervous glances over her husband's shoulder. They spend all of lunch coming up with increasingly ludicrous explanations for this, and finally, on their way out, they ask.

"'Scuse me," says Rose, who tends to be their unofficial spokesperson in normal, everyday situations like these. "We can't help but notice you've been watching us for while. We were wondering if we have something on our faces or something?"

"Oh, dear child," says the woman, looking terribly troubled and sounding close to tears. "So much darkness behind you – and so much more is yet to come."

"What?" asks Rose, her friendly smile fading as she feels Jack and the Doctor tense behind her.

"Carmen, what's wrong?" asks her husband, taking her hand and stroking it reassuringly. "What do you see?"

"I see – oh, such pain! A promise will be broken –" Her gaze shifts from Rose to the Doctor. " – and with it, a mind –" Her tearful eyes meet Jack's. "—and with that, a heart."

"What are you talking about?" demands the Doctor, his face very pale and his eyes very dark. "What promise?"

She turns back to him, and her face is full of sorrow and pity and knowledge, and Rose feels a chill go up her spine even before she speaks.

"Forever."


	8. The Flower of the Ages

Notes: The title comes from a poem called As I Walked Out One Evening by W. H. Auden. I highly recommend it, and anything else by Auden.

The Flower of the Ages

Summary: Between the fire of the past and the ice of the future, three people find a moment of bliss.

**-DW-**

Jack wandered through the halls of the TARDIS, searching for its other two occupants. He had slept in that morning and missed breakfast, though a plate was left out for him, kept warm by the wonderful timeship. Rose's doing, probably, though it was hard to be sure. The Doctor had been known to exhibit sudden bursts of thoughtfulness, and they had all been more aware (and protective) of each other in the past few weeks, after their rather disquieting encounter with a woman who was apparently psychic.

Which was one of the reasons for Jack's search. Normally, he'd have given up after checking their usual haunts – the console room, the library, Rose's room – but he still felt unsettled when they were out of his sight for too long, especially after their close call the day before.

He finally found them in the TARDIS' garden. Well, one of the gardens, new to his eyes – it was an overgrown meadow of silver-green grass, warm and bright beneath a golden sky. The Doctor was on a bench near the door, looking uncharacteristically peaceful as he paged through a book of poetry. He glanced up as Jack entered.

"Oh, good morning."

"Morning, Doc. Have you seen Rose?"

"Mm, she's out there somewhere," said the Doctor, waving out at the meadow, which stretched as far as the eye could see. "Chasing butterflies, last I saw," he added, with a loving smile which almost made it to his eyes before morphing into melancholy.

"Butterflies, huh?" asked Jack, sitting down beside him.

"Yep. I figured the least I could do was show her something pretty, after yesterday."

"Yeah," said Jack, shuddering at the memory of Rose's body strapped to that horrible device, of her terrified eyes in her stubbornly brave face as the blades moved closer, closer, closer . . . . He cleared his throat. "Still, we got her out in time. No harm done."

"No harm done," the Doctor repeated, almost to himself, and swallowed, as if choking back the silent _this time_ which hovered, unspoken, between them.

"This is a nice garden," said Jack, changing the subject, unwilling to let this rare moment of peace be darkened by the inevitable future. "I haven't seen it before."

"It's been decades since I came in here," said the Doctor, eyes distant as he stared out over the landscape. "Too many memories."

"This isn't –?" Jack started, shocked, but cut himself off. The Doctor turned to him, expectant. Jack cleared his throat and continued more gently. "Is this a replica of your planet?"

"What?" asked the Doctor, sounding honestly startled. "No. No, those rooms are – it's not safe to use them. Everything went a bit – they're not stable." He shifted, rubbing the back of neck uncomfortably. "No, this is Arcadia. Well, a reasonable facsimile, anyway."

"Arcadia?" repeated Jack, nearly as surprised as before, his eyebrows jumping towards his hairline. "That planet which –?"

"Yeah," said the Doctor, cutting him off. He was avoiding his eyes, staring across the meadow but obviously not seeing the beatific vista before them. Jack bit back a sigh, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. It didn't surprise him that the Doctor had witnessed – or taken part in, or maybe even caused – that particular tragedy. The man attracted disaster like no one Jack had ever known, and it broke him, every time. Jack shivered, remembering the prophetic words of the psychic woman whom they had met a few weeks ago.

Someday, he wouldn't be able to pick up the pieces.

But that day was not today. He gave the Doctor's shoulder a firm squeeze and rose, jerking the Time Lord out of his undoubtedly painful memories.

"C'mon," he said, in response to his friend's questioning look. "Let's find Rose. If anyone could get in trouble in a replica of a peaceful planet in the middle of the TARDIS, it would be her."

"Jeopardy friendly," said the Doctor. Recycled words, judging by the twist of his lips and the wistful note in his eyes. Still, he set down his book and stood.

They walked in companionable silence for a few minutes before they spotted a figure in the distance. Rose was standing perfectly still, arms held away from her body, and for a moment Jack felt a pang of worry that his flippant words had actually proved true – but as they approached, it became apparent what she was doing. One shimmering, silver butterfly alighted on her hand – and then another on her shoulder, and another, and another.

Jack slowed his steps and felt the Doctor do the same beside him, finally stopping a few feet away from her. She grinned at them, but didn't move or speak, obviously not wanting to scare off the delicate insects.

"Having fun?" the Doctor questioned, smiling right back. Rose's grin widened in response.

She twirled suddenly, dislodging her iridescent playmates. She continued to spin, laughing delightedly as they fluttered around her in a glittering cloud, her hair shining in the golden light as it fanned out behind her. Jack had never seen anything more beautiful – until a moment later, when the Doctor stepped forward and swept her into his arms, his laughter mingling with hers, all darkness gone from his eyes. The happiness which he radiated was just as powerful as his pain could be, and Jack found himself laughing as well.

It was perfection.

It wouldn't last; moments like these were fleeting at best. The past was constantly snapping at their heels, snagging at their minds and hearts and souls with claws of guilt and fury and sorrow; the future loomed before them, filled with promises of heartbreak and madness. Rose would age and die; the Doctor would splinter like glass; Jack, alone, would live on and on and on . . .

But not today.

Right here, right now, there was only joy.


	9. Prismatic

Prismatic

Summary: It will all look better in the morning.

**-DW-**

Jack's steps were heavy as they returned to the TARDIS. There was none of the banter they usually shared after an adventure, no laughter or bickering or reassurances. They were all exhausted. It had been a long, long day. Rose had been given a crash-course in thirties euphemisms and abducted by horrific pig-men, Jack had been killed twice over, and the Doctor –

God, the Doctor.

Jack had thought – hoped, prayed – that Rose's presence would be enough to keep the Doctor from throwing his life away at every turn. Apparently, he had been wrong, seeing as he had gasped back to life (_again_ with the extermination) to the sight of Rose's pale and uncharacteristically tear-soaked face, only to have her breathlessly explain how the Doctor had gone and _handed himself over_ to the Daleks.

"_I tried to stop him, but he just wouldn't listen – the Daleks were firing everywhere and you were dead and Solomon went and tried to reason with them and, well, you can guess how that turned out. And the Doctor stepped out in front of everyone, like he does, except – he was yelling at them to kill him, Jack. I think he meant it, too. I shouted at him and he looked back at me and his __**eyes**__ – it was like back on the Gamestation."_

She had cut herself off, then; wiped her eyes and drew in a breath and begun forming a plan like the competent young woman she was, but Jack hadn't needed her to elaborate any further to know exactly what she was talking about. The Daleks quite literally drove the Doctor mad – chased him right to the edge of his despair and then pushed him over it until he lost sight of hope and love and mercy and his only desire was to _end it_, one way or another. Preferably, he would blow the Daleks to smithereens, but if that wasn't viable, he would just as readily end his own life.

The Daleks were gone, now. Not all destroyed, but all out of reach and no longer an immediate threat. Jack, as he pulled the doors closed behind him, wished that the same could be said for the Doctor's death wish.

The Time Lord made an attempt at a smile as he began the dematerialization sequence, but it was flat and brittle and disappeared the moment he looked away. Jack shared a glance with Rose, and she nodded once, agreeing to take the lead this time.

"Doctor –" she began, but was cut off as the Doctor gave a knob a particularly vicious twist and the TARDIS jerked violently. "Doctor!" she yelped with alarm and anger as she clung to one of the struts.

The TARDIS settled again, with the subtle shift in ambient sound which meant they were in the Vortex.

"Bed for you two, I think," said the Doctor, without looking up from the controls which he fiddled with unproductively. "Sleep well."

It was a blatant dismissal. Rose bristled, while Jack quietly edged around the console to place himself in front of the interior door. Rose and the Doctor both got snappish when they were tired, and this could easily turn into a shouting match – if it did, he wanted to be in a position to keep either of them from storming out until he could calm them both down.

"I'm not going anywhere until you do, also," said Rose stubbornly, crossing her arms. "You're just as exhausted as we are."

"Rose," the Doctor sighed, with condescending exasperation, the sort that he knew got under her skin. He was actively trying to provoke her, the self-destructive bastard. Jack didn't know whether to shake him or hug him. "I'm a Time Lord. I –"

"Still need sleep," Rose interrupted, "and you haven't been getting any. Don't think I haven't noticed!"

The Doctor didn't respond. Rose made a frustrated sound and seemed ready to continue her tirade, but then she stopped, fell back, really looked at him. Jack didn't know whether it was the rigid tension in the Doctor's back, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands, or something else entirely, but she softened abruptly.

She approached him slowly, carefully, like one would a wounded animal. Gently, she laid a hand on his arm, eyes following his as he looked away from her. She looked nearly as tired as he did, and close to tears.

"Doctor, please."

Her voice cracked, and the Doctor finally glanced up, his cold mask faltering and falling. He suddenly looked absolutely shattered, and terribly lost.

"Rose," he said, and it was nearly a sob.

Jack wasn't sure which of them moved first, but a moment later they were wrapped in each other's arms, and moments after that Jack had joined their tangled embrace. It was a study in contrast, Rose melting into him on one side, warm and soft and steady even as tears ran down her face, while the Doctor clung to him on the other, cold and boney and trembling, though stubbornly dry-eyed.

Soon enough, the Doctor loosened his hold and pulled back, rubbing his hands over his face in an effort to regain some of his composure.

"I think we could _all_ use some sleep," said Jack firmly, and the Doctor nodded reluctantly.

"Think we could, yeah," he agreed, voice rough.

"Could we –" Rose hesitated as they both turned to look at her, wringing her hands uncertainly, looking young and unsure as she rarely did these days. "Just tonight, I mean, just to sleep –" She seemed to realize she wasn't making any sense, and cut herself off, swallowing hard before she continued. "I don't want to be alone right now," she finally said, in a small voice.

"Me neither," Jack agreed readily. He'd never pass up a chance to get those two in bed with him, even if it was just for sleeping. It was more than that, though. While he usually appreciated a bit of solitude at the end of the day, there was something horribly _wrong_ about the thought of them all scattering to their separate rooms tonight. "Doctor?"

The Doctor hesitated, tense, conflicted. As enigmatic as he could be, at the moment his face was an open book. Jack could see every nuance of _yes-no-stay-run-never-always-lovethem-losethem-want-need _–

"Alright," the Doctor conceded at last, with resignation and relief in his eyes.

For once, it seemed, he was too exhausted to push anyone away.

**-DW-**

It was Jack's room they ended up in, naturally. Even if he had known where the Doctor's room was, neither he nor Rose would have ever dared disturb his privacy, and Rose's room would have just been awkward. Jack's room, on the other hand, was simple yet comfortable, a place for sleeping rather than living. His few personal mementos were tucked away, and the TARDIS thoughtfully provided a bed large enough for three.

Rose slipped into the bathroom to change. Jack disrobed without shame, and it seemed that the Doctor didn't even have the energy to blush as he stripped down with the automatic efficiency of someone who wore the same thing every day, though he did manage to position himself in such a way that Jack couldn't have seen anything interesting even if he had tried. As it was, all he got was a vague impression of too-prominent shoulder blades and quite a lot of very pale skin before the Doctor pulled on his pinstriped pajamas.

Rose reemerged. What followed could have been immensely uncomfortable, but it wasn't. They were all too tired for embarrassment, and fell into bed with minimal fuss. Jack and Rose automatically formed a protective cocoon around the Doctor, who was asleep in instants. Jack found that he still had the energy to curse himself for not realizing how long it had been since the Time Lord had last slept.

The TARDIS dimmed the lights. Later (if they found the time and the Doctor wasn't being too evasive), they would talk about today. They would talk about the last Dalek's whereabouts and the Doctor's death wish and maybe, if they were very, very lucky, they'd actually get somewhere. But not tonight.

Jack was just drifting off when Rose's voice cut through his slumber.

"Jack?"

Her voice was drowsy, but there was an edge of real distress to it, and Jack tried to force his mind into some semblance of alertness.

"Yeah?"

Her hand found his where it rested on the Doctor's hip and gripped tightly.

"Promise me something?"

"Anything," he answered, without hesitation.

"Promise you'll take care of him."

The pleasant haze which had infused Jack's body and thoughts evaporated. He didn't need to be telepathic to hear the unspoken _when I'm gone_ at the end of Rose's sentence.

"Of course I will," Jack choked out through his suddenly tight throat.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Mm," Rose hummed, already half-asleep. "Love you, Jack."

"Love you," Jack whispered.

Her hand slipped away from his, and he tightened his grip on the Doctor.

Despite his exhaustion, it was a very long time before he fell asleep.

**-DW-**

Jack jerked awake to the distinct feeling that something was Not Right. The room had taken on the shadowy, hushed feel that was common to any dark place at night, the kind that made children fear the space beneath their beds and soldiers recall suddenly-plausible ghost stories. The TARDIS' hum had changed, her song now low and mournful and eerie in a way it never was during the day. He could barely hear Rose's breathing, and the Doctor – oh.

That was what was wrong.

He shifted, his heart clenching as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

The Doctor had curled in on himself in sleep, losing contact with both Jack and Rose. He shivered and twitched in his isolation, letting out a pathetic whimper and shrinking even further. Even now, cradled between two people who loved him more than anything in the Universe, he looked horribly, utterly alone.

Especially now.

Jack chased away the thought and reached out to draw the Doctor closer, careful not to wake Rose, who was still sound asleep. The Time Lord didn't wake as Jack gently coaxed him out of his fetal position and into a warm embrace, a testament to how exhausted he must have been. Still, even the deep unconsciousness couldn't keep the Doctor's pain from spilling into the open, and soon Jack's shoulder was soaked with cold tears.

Jack had to choke back his own tears as he tightened his grip protectively on his shaking friend. The Doctor felt so frail in his arms, alarmingly thin beneath his pinstriped pajamas, shuddering with the emotion he could never let show in waking hours. Even now, he didn't scream or sob or speak – the sounds he made were tiny and pitiful and desperately suppressed. Without his bluster, without his shining (false) grin and endearing (empty) babble, he resembled nothing so much as an abandoned child.

"It's alright, Doc," Jack murmured softly, running his fingers through his hair. "It'll be alright."

In the quiet, the words sounded dead and hollow.

It was just the night that made it seem this way, Jack knew. It was just the darkness that made the Doctor look pale and thin and fragile as a paper doll. It was just the hush that made Rose's steady breathing sound like the ticking of a clock. Three in the morning was always the same, whether it was an actual time or just an arbitrary number assigned to some part of the sleep cycle in the TARDIS. It always brought guilt and worry and melodrama, irrational panic in the guise of horrible clarity.

In the morning, he'd laugh at himself and his absurdity. In the morning, the Doctor would grin and babble and it would (mostly, sometimes, almost) chase the ghosts from his eyes. In the morning, Rose would smile and tease and once again look young and strong and vital. In the morning, they would spin off into a new adventure and _run_, and it would be brilliant and magical and fantastic.

Right now, in the darkness and the hush, with Rose wasting away her precious human life and the Doctor choking on his nightmares and the TARDIS humming a lonely song from a long-dead planet and Jack clinging desperately to what would inevitably slip through his fingers, their little family seemed hopelessly broken, but Jack knew better. In the morning, they would be beautiful.

He just wished he could shake the feeling that it was the light which was blinding.


	10. Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

**Notes: The title belongs to T. S. Eliot. Also, I am not much of a poet, so if the snippet which Jack recalls is horrendous, just put it down to translation difficulties (as he probably learned it in whatever they spoke in the Boeshane Peninsula, and who knows what it was originally written in).**

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

Summary: In which good intentions pave the road to a very particular kind of hell.

**-DW-**

Rose leant back where she sat on the edge of a short wall. It was not brick, exactly, but it was some sort of grey stone which was approximately the same texture. Whatever it was, it was pleasantly warm despite the misty dullness of their surroundings, and perfectly situated for watching the Doctor and Jack argue over which obscure piece of technology was better suited to solve some minor problem in the TARDIS. She was close enough that she could keep an eye on them and make sure it didn't get _too_ heated, and far enough that she didn't risk either of them asking her opinion.

It was an alright planet, Lutare V. A bit clinical and very grey, but there hadn't been a crisis yet, so that was good. That was definitely good. That was very, very – oh, who was she kidding? She was bored out of her skull. Honestly, she was getting as bad as the Doctor. Put her on a nice, peaceful planet with no one trying to kill her and she had no idea what to do with herself. Her mum would –

She cut off that line of thought abruptly. They were having a good day, for once, and she was not going to ruin it by brooding. Yes, her family was still in Pete's World, no, she had no chance of ever seeing them again, but everyone left home in the end, right? Anyway, the enormous mansion that her mother loved so much had never felt like home. Not when the rooms were sharp-edged and finite, decorated in her mother's tastes with her father's money. Not when none of them contained a certain Time Lord with a bright smile and dark eyes.

The Doctor was her home, and the TARDIS was his, as much as any place was. She had chosen him over her family a long time ago, and she would stick by that decision. He needed her more than they did.

She shook herself from her musings – which were becoming a bit too maudlin for her liking – and looked around the marketplace. There was no need to run for her life – and that was _good_ thing, definitely a good thing – so she could take the opportunity to do a bit of people-watching.

The Lutarians were delicate and pale and slightly creepy, with their snow-white skin and their hair and eyes various shades of grey, ranging from shining silver to pitch black. Their ethereal appearance was only reinforced by their quiet, reserved countenances. There was no laughter in the streets, no sirens, no shouts, not even a raised voice, save for those of her friends. It was more than a little eerie.

Still, when she looked closer, she could see evidence of pursuits which were far from otherworldly. A young couple walked hand in hand, leaning unnecessarily close to each other when they spoke and smiling more than the words themselves warranted. A shopkeeper played some sort of game with a string, looking bored and probably ignoring whatever she was supposed to be doing. An older woman steered a pram-like object with one hand and kept hold of a fidgety child with the other.

Rose smiled to herself. The sight of ordinary people going about their ordinary lives was oddly comforting – as long as she knew that she would be leaving as soon as her companions finished bickering. She glanced over at said companions, her grin widening at the sight of their mutual irritation as they gestured emphatically at each other.

They literally stuck out amongst the small, monochromatic natives. Tall, dark-haired, handsome men in long coats. Slicked back to spiky, grey to brown, broad-shouldered to skinny. Worryingly skinny, even now, and she didn't even want to think about what state he must have been in when Jack first found him –

So she wouldn't. She wouldn't think about the Doctor's ever-uncertain mental health, or her own lack of family, or the bleak and guilt-inducing implications of Jack's immortality. Instead, she would cherish this moment of peace, deal with the painful ones when they came, and mentally catalogue a few of those hand gestures that Jack was making for later use.

She shifted a bit and glanced about again. The young couple had moved on; the slacking shopkeeper was being scolded (quietly) by her boss; the restless child had been bought off and was cheerfully eating a bag of sweets . . . . And she wasn't the only one watching.

She leapt to her feet, too late to call a warning, as a group of uniformed Lutarians descended on Jack and the Doctor.

**-DW-**

Jack stumbled in shock. One instant he had been on a Lutarian street, struggling against a police officer as the Doctor demanded to know what was going on, then something sharp had pierced his neck and the next – well, he seemed to be in the TARDIS.

"What the hell?" he said aloud.

"It's not really the TARDIS."

He jumped and spun to find the Doctor behind him, arms crossed and face grim as he leaned against the jump seat.

"The Lutarians, as you might have noticed, are a very reserved species," he continued. "Probably some local was disturbed by our arguing in their marketplace and called the authorities. They've given us someplace private to sort out our differences."

"By drugging us?" asked Jack incredulously.

"It makes perfect sense to them. I doubt they mean us any harm. Normally, I expect this would be a shared mental bridge, but they evidently didn't realize that we're different species, not mentally compatible. Whatever device they have us hooked up to defaulted to the most telepathically able mind."

". . . we're inside your head," Jack concluded, once he puzzled out that rather roundabout explanation.

"Yes," said the Doctor, without even an attempt at his usual cheer. "Highly simplified, obviously, so that you can perceive it without _your_ mind being overwhelmed, but essentially . . . yes."

"Well, there are worse places to be stuck in," said Jack.

"No, Captain. There really aren't."

"What do you mean?" the ex-Time Agent asked, glancing around at the dreamscape TARDIS. Now that he looked at it more closely, a few of the details were off – some of the controls were different than he remembered, and Rose's jacket was missing from the railing where she always left it. It seemed fairly harmless, and the Doctor was a trained telepath. It shouldn't have been too difficult for him to keep things under control.

"Those drugs they gave us have impaired my telepathy. I won't be able to keep up my shields for long."

Now Jack could see the tension in the Doctor's jaw, the subtle desperation in his eyes as their surroundings began to slip out of his control. Already the whole image was beginning to flicker at the edges of vision, familiarly organic one second and shiningly white or elegantly gothic the next.

"Right," he said, trying to wrap his mind around the situation. He was in the Doctor's head. He was inside the mind of one of the most brilliant, powerful, damaged beings in the Universe, and that being was losing control of their surroundings. "What does that mean, practically speaking?"

"Nothing good. This is just an entry point – because I'm always in telepathic contact with the TARDIS, there's a weak point in my shields there. Normally it's negligible, but that meant it was the easiest place for them to send us in. As the pattern starts to deteriorate, we'll move through different mental planes – slowly, probably, because I'm a fairly strong telepath by this planet's standards."

"Mental planes? Plural?" questioned Jack. A mental plane wasn't even the actual mind of whomever it belonged to – it was more of a metaphor, to keep telepaths separated from their subjects and prevent them from getting lost. To his (admittedly limited and mostly theoretical) knowledge, most sentient beings only had one, unless they were severely unbalanced. The Doctor wasn't the sanest guy in the Universe, but Jack hadn't seen any evidence of multiple personalities. Well, except for the whole regeneration thing . . . .

"Time Lord minds are rather more complex than human ones," said the Doctor through gritted teeth, obviously straining to keep a hold on the current plane, which was beginning to shift and fade.

"How many levels are we talking here?"

"A few. Gah!"

Jack leapt forward to catch him as his knees buckled.

"Whoa. Easy there, Doc."

"I'm fine," the Doctor assured him unconvincingly, straightening again as their environs made its final transition and they found themselves . . . on a satellite. A dreadfully familiar satellite, in fact. Jack swallowed hard.

"Um . . . Doctor?" he said uncertainly. "You sure this is _your_ head?"

"Yes, I'm sure," the Time Lord snapped irritably, spinning to face him – no, practically rounding on him. Jack nearly took a step back, startled by the anger and frustration and thinly-veiled fear in the Doctor's eyes. He began to think that this situation was even worse than he had anticipated. "I may not have spent a lot of time in here lately, but I still know my own head when I –" He broke off suddenly, the color draining from his face as his eyes fixed on something over Jack's shoulder.

"Doctor, what's . . ." Jack trailed off himself as he turned and took in what the Doctor was staring at. "Is that . . . _me_?" he asked, gaping at the figure which was watching them from down the corridor. It certainly looked like him. Sort of. A younger, more flawless version of him, with more dramatic colors and the kind of perfection in his skin and hair and clothes that he had never been able to achieve all at once. In fact, he even seemed to be glowing a bit.

"He's just an apparition," said the Doctor stiffly, turning on his heel and stubbornly refusing to look at either the image or Jack. "A dream. Come on. We're not accomplishing anything by standing there."

Jack considered pointing out that they wouldn't accomplish anything by walking around a mental version of the Gamestation, either, but decided that this was not the best time to confront the Doctor with the holes in his logic.

"I'm flattered, Doc," he said instead, trotting to catch up. He glanced back, unable to resist another look at the idealized version of himself. Bright blue eyes – brighter than his, brighter than should have been possible in the dim lighting – were tracking their progress. "But, y'know, when I dream about the two of us, there are usually less clothes involved. And having two of me brings up some _really_ interesting possibil–"

"Doctor!"

Jack had been in some very weird situations in his long life, but being interrupted by his own voice definitely made the top ten. His other self was jogging towards them, wearing a familiar, easy grin that was incongruous with the equally familiar coldness in his eyes.

"Running away again, are you?" asked Not-Jack, in a smooth, friendly tone that held a razor edge. The Doctor's jaw tightened, his pace quickening, and Jack's stomach sank.

The Doctor had always been his own worst enemy, and here, inside his head, every memory was just another instrument of self-harm.

"Nowhere to run in here," taunted Not-Jack. "Nowhere to hide. What's a coward to do?"

"Doctor, don't listen to him – it," said Jack, ignoring the other him and focusing on the Doctor, who had come to a halt, his back rigid. "It's not me. We're past all that. I've forgiven you, remember?"

"'Course I have," agreed Not-Jack cheerfully. "Rose and I, we care about you. All that loyalty, all that _love_. All for you." Not-Jack's voice suddenly dropped its tone of false amiability, and the next words were a vicious hiss. "And you don't deserve a bit of it."

"Stop it!" Jack snapped as the Doctor's shoulders shuddered, just once.

"Oh, look!" said Not-Jack with a parody of a grin. "I'm defending you! Because that's what people do, isn't it? Defend you. Follow you. Wait for you and fight for you and _die_ for you. And here's me, living for you. Living and dying and living again. Forever."

The mindscape was fading again, taking the Not-Jack with it, but it managed one parting shot before it blinked away.

"There is no forever, Doctor. Not after this. You know how this ends!"

They were finally alone once more as the world shifted around them. The vague shapes that twisted on the edge of Jack's vision made his head swim and his stomach hurt, so he looked at the Doctor instead.

"Doctor," he began, and the Time Lord turned to look at him. Jack had been meaning to say something encouraging, to assure him that they would get through this, or maybe to just crack some stupid joke and get a reluctant twitch of the lips in return. The words died in his throat, however, at the bleak, empty look in his friend's eyes.

"This is going to get much worse," stated the Doctor flatly.

**-DW-**

Rose tapped her fingers impatiently against the top of the desk she had been directed to. On the other side of it, a bored-looking Lutarian woman was typing something into a computer. She had spent a good two hours trying to find out what was going on and how she could fix it, and by now, she was thoroughly frustrated. The irritating, Zen-like quality which everyone on this planet seemed to possess was not helping.

"Look," Rose snapped at last. "I haven't got all day. My friends have been arrested, and I was told to talk to you."

"If you were told to talk to me, then they weren't arrested," said the woman calmly, not looking up. "They were simply removed from the public and put in neutral telepathic contact in order to facilitate their reconciliation. I assure you, they are in no danger."

Rose had heard _that_ one before.

"Yeah, but listen, we're not from here –"

"Human visitors are subject to the same rules as Lutarian citizens," the woman cut across evenly. "All our equipment is fully tested for safety and comfort."

"But they're not human!" Rose protested.

_That_ got her attention. The woman's head snapped up, her slate eyes wide.

"Excuse me?"

"They're different species," Rose said urgently. She didn't like the alarm on the woman's face; didn't want to know what the 'fully tested' equipment would do to the Doctor. "Jack's human, but the Doctor's not."

"Our equipment is compatible with a wide range of humanoid species," said the woman, but it sounded like she was trying to calm herself as much as Rose. Evidently whatever weird meditation techniques they used were only effective up to a point. "What species is he, precisely?"

Rose didn't even hesitate. She knew that the Doctor often shied away from revealing his species, and that even when he did it was widely unknown, or else shrouded in myth and legend, but this was an emergency, and she could only hope and pray that they recognized the title.

"Time Lord."

**-DW-**

The Doctor had spoken truly when he said that it would get worse. Each subsequent dreamscape – dozens of them – contained an apparition similar to the first, ghosts giving voice to the Doctor's guilt. Some, Jack recognized. A young Sarah-Jane Smith stood in the rain on a nondescript street, asserting tearfully that the Doctor had _been_ her life. A teenage girl who matched UNIT's description of Dorothy 'Ace' McShane snarled that the Doctor had lied to her and that she had never forgiven him. Most, however, were completely unfamiliar to him. An even younger boy, clad in a tunic of alien origin, looked at them with big, sad eyes and said plaintively that he only ever wanted the Doctor's approval. A kilted Scotsman faced them in the middle of a medieval battlefield, ignoring his obviously fatal wound, and accused the Doctor of abandoning him.

They did appear to be only apparitions, as the Doctor had said – not one of them attacked them physically, though McShane looked ready to try. That also meant that Jack was helpless to stop them, and all he could do was keep a supportive hand on the Doctor's shoulder, as he soon found that any further attempts at comfort were only twisted by the apparitions and used against him.

The Doctor's face remained stoically blank throughout every assault, even as Jack flinched and cringed under the ferocity of the attacks, but there was one visible sign of the Time Lord's growing distress. It began as a subtle trembling of his hands and slowly worsened with each encounter. By the time they came to a dark-haired young woman in an archaic gown, the Doctor was shaking like a leaf.

"I was only the first," said the woman, before fading away.

The environment which replaced her grey, mechanical backdrop was such a dramatic change from the grim, gloomy surroundings that they had been privy to so far that Jack actually gasped. They stood on a hill which was covered with long grass, showing a million different shades of red as it rippled in the breeze. The twin suns which hung in the warm orange sky glinted off a magnificent domed city in the distance and, when he stared around in wonder, they shone on a forest of silver-leaved trees which surrounded the base of the most impressive mountains Jack had ever seen.

Beside him, the Doctor let out a strangled sound and sank to the ground.

"Doctor!" Jack exclaimed, alarmed. He had no idea what was happening, why his friend would react with such despair to a world which was not only beautiful but also somehow familiar, tugging at his memory like the lyrics of a half-forgotten song. . . . No. Not a song. A poem.

_It shines in the heavens,  
Kasterborous' treasure,  
Its wonders enchanting the eye.  
The hills bathed in crimson,  
They stand tall forever,  
With keepers who never will die._

Oh, god. He immediately dropped into a crouch beside the Doctor, laying what he hoped was a comforting hand on one bony, shuddering shoulder.

"It's alright, Doctor. It'll be alright." It was the best he could offer, but he had no idea how empty platitudes were supposed to help the man who was on his hands and knees in the soil of his long dead planet, drawing his breath in ragged gasps and still managing to repeat a choked mantra.

"Not real, not real, not real . . ."

"Ah, now, that's the question, isn't it?" drawled a voice from behind them. Just another apparition, Jack thought, but he still shot a cursory glance over his shoulder. It was an older man this time, with dark clothes and questionable taste in facial hair. "Obviously it's just a subconscious image, but does that mean it isn't _real_?"

"No no no no no," the Doctor muttered, almost to himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He let out a sudden, harsh burst of laughter, bitter and hysterical and mad, and Jack felt a shiver run up his spine. "No, you're not doing this, not now, you're not _real_."

"Oh, that's just pathetic," said the apparition scornfully. Jack could practically _hear_ it rolling its eyes. "I ask a profound philosophical question, and what do you return with? A psychological breakdown. Typical. Some things never change. But then . . ."

Jack jerked back with a curse, pulling the Doctor with him. They ended up sprawled awkwardly on the ground, Jack with one arm wrapped around the Doctor's chest. The apparition had abruptly materialized in front of them, with unfathomable eyes and a wide, empty grin to rival the Doctor's own.

"Some things do," the apparition practically purred. "I love what you've done with the place."

The dreamscape shifted again, but not gradually as before. Suddenly the grass was gone, leaving barren, scorched ground. Stretching out to the horizon across the seared landscape was mile after mile of factories and bunkers and warships. The sky was darkened by smoke. The once-pristine dome around the distant city was shattered.

"I didn't do this," protested the Doctor, shaking his head desperately as he stared out at the war-torn planet. "It was the War."

"A war you could have prevented." The new speaker was a tall, thin man with a long face and short black hair. He was wearing ceremonial robes of some sort, and looking at the Doctor with cold disdain. "Or don't you remember, brother dear? All those centuries ago. If you had completed that assignment, this never would have happened."

"We never would have died."

The Doctor actually whimpered, though it was not clear whether it was from the ruthless words or the new apparition – a young blonde woman – from whom they came. Jack tightened his hold protectively on the shaking Time Lord.

"It's not real, Doctor," he said desperately. "We're inside your head; it's not real."

"It can't be real, can it?" came a lilting, child-like voice. The Doctor stilled in Jack's arms, face white and eyes wide, barely even breathing as he stared at the latest apparition. "It can't be real, because we wouldn't be here if it were, would we?" said the young, dark-haired girl, and unlike the other apparitions, her wide eyes contained no hint of malice.

"Susan . . ." the Doctor whispered, breaking from Jack's grip and scrambling to his feet. The girl watched, a sad, loving smile on her face, as the Doctor approached. The other apparitions were already beginning to fade.

"Grandfather," the girl said softly, bringing up a hand to cup his cheek. The look of guilt and yearning and pure, unadulterated pain on the Doctor's face took Jack's breath away like a punch to the gut. "What happened to you?"

"I'm sorry, Susan," said the Doctor, his voice cracking. The words tumbled over themselves as he babbled frantically. "I'm so, so sorry, there was no other way, I couldn't find another way, I wasn't good enough, wasn't smart enough – _Rassilon!_ – I'm sorry, I'm so sorry - _no!_ No, please, don't go, don't –"

Jack, having climbed to his feet, watched helplessly as the apparition faded like the rest. The Doctor's eyes slid shut, sending a single tear sliding down his cheek. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as the mindscape began to shift again.

"Doctor –" Jack started, not entirely sure what he was going to say, but needing to say _something_. He jerked back in alarm when the Doctor spun to face him.

"Listen to me, Captain," the Time Lord snapped, in a tone that Jack had never heard from this incarnation – a tone of command, permitting no argument and expecting instant obedience. There were still tear-tracks in his face, but his eyes were steely and his posture was rigid and uncompromising.

"I haven't got much time," continued the Doctor. "I'm beginning to lose control of my mental projection. That means that you're going to be on your own from now on, and it's not going to be pretty. You just need to keep your head and remember who you are. Even if you don't, you probably won't sustain any lasting damage, but I don't want you taking any chances, got that?"

"Yes, sir," said Jack, with a mock salute. The Doctor flinched, and it suddenly hit Jack that perhaps his friend had a reason for his intense aversion to anything military. Whatever role the Doctor had played in the Time War, he doubted that he had been a civilian. "Sorry, Doc," he said, more gently. "I'll be careful."

The Doctor nodded, his gaze turned inward as their new surroundings began to crystallize. Jack noted automatically that they were in some sort of ceremonial chamber, elegantly decorated with the circular motifs which he recognized as Gallifreyan, but he didn't pay it much mind. Instead, he watched as the Doctor seemed to finish some internal debate.

"Jack," he said at last, not meeting his eyes and obviously fighting to keep his tone even. "The Time War is next. Most of it is beyond human comprehension, but the things you do see . . . ." He swallowed hard before continuing. "What you do after we get out of this is up to you. I won't try to stop you."

Jack stared at the Doctor in shock and confusion.

"Look, Doc, whatever happens in here, I'm not going to leave you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Captain!" snarled the Doctor, his voice carrying traces of the North and his eyes flashing blue for an instant. He stumbled backwards, looking almost as startled as Jack felt, and then his blank mask descended once more. "It's starting."

The Doctor began to flicker. He was _young old short tall coat umbrella brunet blond leather velvet._ He was still talking, but it was garbled, shifting accent and occasionally language, and Jack only managed to catch an odd phrase here and there.

". . . astoundingly complex . . ." from someone who appeared to be all teeth, curls, and scarf.

". . . subconscious self-images. . ." said a man with a cultured voice and a face like a renaissance angel.

"Brave heart, Captain," a man with a boyish face and old eyes managed to say before he blinked away as well.

The shifts were getting more abrupt and less literal, the men Jack knew to be old incarnations of the Doctor giving way to more metaphorical images.

He was a soldier, haunted and weary, jaw set and hands shaking.

He was a demon, dark and terrible, flames dancing in merciless eyes.

He was a scientist, brilliant and jaded, bending under the weight of his knowledge.

He was a man, just a man, breaking and bleeding and sobbing . . . .

He was gone.

**-DW-**

Rose paced back and forth in the room she had been shown to by the suddenly nervous and deferential woman, who had assured her, with a respectful bob of her head, that an official would be with her shortly. Apparently, Lutarians did recognize the phrase 'Time Lord' – apparently, it terrified them. But at least it was in a bow-a-lot-and-offer-refreshments way and not a shoot-first-questions-later way. That was always a plus.

Rose considered eating one of the posh little biscuits which sat on the low table in the middle of the room, but decided against it. Instead she flopped back onto the pale grey sofa and gave a sigh of frustration.

They had gotten out of worse situations. She wasn't locked up (she had checked the door), and the room was actually quite nice, except for its lack of color and the subtle feeling of awkwardness due to the fact that everything was built for someone just a tiny bit smaller than her. As for Jack and the Doctor, it seemed that the Lutarians genuinely wanted to help them sort out their argument – she just wished she knew more about whatever they were doing to them in the process.

The door swung open, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Ms. Tyler," greeted the man who stepped in. "My name is Callid."

He was youngish, maybe a bit older than her, with the same elfin, almost effeminate features as all the other Lutarians. His hair and eyes were inky black, which meant that he was probably considered extremely attractive among his peers, as the Doctor had explained that the colorblind Lutarians placed a high value on contrast.

"_And when I say 'colorblind,' I mean __**properly**__ colorblind. They only see in shades of grey! Makes sense, really, because their planet is naturally barren and there's not much point in wasting brainpower on colors. And they're actually quite into aesthetics, very minimalist, you know. It's quite nice, if you like that sort of thing. Still, I can't say I'd want to live there . . ."_

"I'm told you claim that one of your friends who have been recently detained is a Time Lord."

"I don't _claim_ anything," Rose protested hotly. "The Doctor _is_ a Time Lord, and I demand that you release him, right now!"

Assertive and haughty was probably the best way to go, she thought. If Time Lords really were respected and feared around here, then surely being the travelling companion of the last one in existence had to have some weight.

"You're certain that he is what he says he is?" questioned Callid, and while his expression was unreadable, something in his tone told her that he could see right through her façade and to the fear and confusion underneath. It did nothing to endear him to her.

"Yes, I'm certain," she snapped. "You can check yourself if you want; he's got two hearts and everything."

"Very well," said Callid with a nod. "Follow me."

**-DW-**

He wasn't gone, thought Jack, fighting panic. Not really. Just . . . dissipated. They were inside his head, after all, he couldn't exactly leave. The Doctor was still there, in a sense, probably still aware, just not perceivable with human senses.

The knowledge, uncertain at best, was not terribly comforting as Jack's suddenly harsh breathing echoed in the empty room.

It was even less comforting when the mindscape shifted again, and _kept_ shifting.

Before, every place they found themselves in had felt solid, regardless of its actual state of reality. But now . . . now the world was spinning and swirling in ways that humans weren't meant to perceive. It sounded like oil on water and tasted like dancing flames and looked like dissonant chords of music. Jack could feel his own mental projection beginning to waver, losing touch with his own limbs as the Doctor's voice echoed in his ears. _"You just need to keep your head and remember who you are."_

Easier said than done, when thoughts and memories that weren't his own were running though his head at a thousand miles a minute.

A piece of advice drifted to the surface, a forgotten fragment of a lesson, but whether it was his or the Doctor's, he didn't know. _Find a mantra; something to keep you anchored. Don't use feelings or experiences; they're too complex. Just a simple phrase, like your name._

"I am Captain Jack Harkness," he forced himself to say, even though he wasn't at all sure that his mouth was still attached to the rest of him.

Galaxies burnt and exploded and simply blinked out of existence, watched by grey eyes which had once been soft and kind and merciful. The War raged across the Universe, across the Multiverse, across every bit of Creation and every moment of History. It was always and never. Demons and angels fought and fought and fought until it was impossible to tell one from the other.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness," he coughed, choking on the acrid stench of smoke and blood which filled a throat that wasn't his.

Galaxies weren't the only things that burnt. So did star systems, planets, cities, families. Homes. Mothers and children and fathers screamed and sobbed and raged as their sons and daughters and parents and siblings were torn from them, only to be cut down themselves. And not only by Daleks. By the Time Lords. By the Nightmare Child. By the Doctor.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness," he repeated, with the vague feeling that those words had once meant something.

Gallifrey burnt. The Time Lords screamed. The Doctor fell.

"I am Captain Jack Harkness."

Time twisted and turned and very nearly broke. There was no loneliness quite like being the very very last, and no insanity quite like that of a Time Lord. But the Universe needed a guardian, and Time would not let her champion die.

"I am . . ."

"_I know who I am! I – am—the Doctor!"_

A light in the darkness. The Oncoming Storm and his butterfly.

"I'm . . ."

"_I'm the Doctor, by the way. What's your name?"_

A ripple. Daleks turned to dust once more, and an impossible thing created.

"I . . ."

"_I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself."_

Rebirth. Brokenness buried under a mask of smiles and jokes and youth.

"_I'm so old now. I used to have so much mercy."_

Possibilities. What was, what is, what might be. A million, billion facts and figures and timelines, running through a mind teetering on the brink of madness.

"_I'm the Doctor. Basically, run."_

Silence. Cold and aching and terrible, ashes in the wake of the inferno.

But . . . there was a sound. Faint and distant, just on the edge of hearing.

Someone was weeping.

**-DW-**

The few people in the hallways scattered to either side as Rose and Callid passed, averting their eyes and whispering to each other with a mixture of fear and reverence. She wished she knew whether it was directed at her, or at the man who preceded her with cool confidence in his step. He was wearing a high-collared outfit of solid black rather than the insignia-branded uniforms which the other civil servants did, but she couldn't tell whether that meant he had a very high rank or no rank at all.

They stopped at a nondescript door just like all the others, and Callid pulled a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked it wordlessly. He stepped aside to let her rush in.

"Oh, god, Jack!"

Jack was strapped to some sort of gently humming device in the center of the room, tears leaking from beneath his closed lids. Callid silently disabled the device while she crouched down in front of her friend, grasping his hand in one of her own.

"Wake up, Jack. Oh, please, wake up."

**-DW-**

"Jack? Jack, c'mon, wake up."

Rose.

That was Rose's voice.

That meant that those were her hands, holding his and patting his face urgently. There was an edge in her tone, something beyond normal worry, something closer to panic. Jack forced his eyes open. Why was that so difficult?

"There we go," said Rose with a relieved smile. "You alright?"

Jack hesitated, trying to kick his mind back into gear. There was a nasty taste in his mouth, as though he'd been drugged – that would explain the grogginess. His wrists were sore and his muscles cramped from being bound to the chair he still sat in, but – he tested – he was free now. Other than that, there was the memory loss to worry about, but that wasn't unusual, depending what they had dosed him with . . .

"Yeah, I'm alright."

"You sure?" asked Rose gently. "It's just . . . you're crying."

Jack reached up to touch his face, and, to his surprise, found it damp with tears. Why was he crying?

Where was the Doctor?

In an instant, it all came rushing back. The cloud of confusion cleared, leaving cold, sick horror in its wake.

"We need to find the Doctor," he said, surging to his feet.

"Yeah, I know," said Rose, falling back and shooting him one last concerned look before she turned to address the young man whom Jack only now noticed. "Callid?"

Callid – his slight stature and paper-white skin marked him as a native; the lack of uniform was odd, but not important right now – was watching them closely, though his face remained expressionless. Distantly, Jack registered that Rose must have gotten them freed through official channels, somehow.

"The next door on the right, ma'am," Callid stated, and Jack was moving before he even finished the sentence.

The hallway was some unpleasant institutional grey, but he barely even saw it as he launched himself at the door on his right, yanked at the handle, cursed as he found it locked, slammed a fist against it in frustration –

"Jack!" Rose's hand was on his arm, pulling him back. "Jack, calm down! Callid has the key, and he's got to turn off the machine once we get inside."

Callid moved forward with what was probably the same calm efficiency which saturated this planet, but to Jack, it felt agonizingly slow. The door swung open to reveal a sparse, clinical room just like the one Jack had awoken in, bare save for the chair in the center.

It was in that chair the Doctor was strapped, his wrists bound and his head immobilized by the sleek, wireless device. It looked more like a bicycle helmet than anything, but its benign appearance was belied by the tears running down the Doctor's cheeks and the soft whimpers which escaped from his lips.

"Get him out of that thing!" Jack snapped. Callid was already doing so, entering some sort of code onto a control panel on the back of the chair.

Immediately, the bindings retracted and the helmet rose. Rose rushed forward as the Doctor's eyes blinked open.

"Doctor, it's alright," she said, wiping the tears from his face and steadying him as he stood shakily. "I talked to the police or whatever; told them that you're a Time Lord; that shook them up a bit. I think they'll let us . . ." She trailed off, seeming to realize that the Doctor wasn't listening.

The Time Lord's eyes were on Jack, and he met them with some difficulty.

All his words died in his throat.

God, what could he say? What could he possibly say to calm that maelstrom of guilt and pain and loneliness, knowing that what he could see was only the barest glimpse? He had not been meant to ever, ever see the depths of the Doctor's mind, but now he had, and there was no going back. He couldn't promise that it was alright, or even that it would be, not with the staggering knowledge he now held.

He had been silent for too long. The Doctor had misinterpreted the horror and lingering shock in Jack's eyes.

"I meant it, Jack." His voice was hoarse, broken, and made Jack's heart hurt. "I won't stop you."

"No matter what I do?" Jack asked, and his own voice sounded odd and disconnected to his ears.

The Doctor nodded, swallowing hard and closing his eyes. "No matter what," he confirmed, and the hollow resignation in his words cut deeper than any fear or anger.

"Good," said Jack, and hugged him.

The Doctor flinched, went rigid, and then melted into his embrace in the space of two seconds. He was sobbing, choking, clinging to him like a drowning man to a raft, and suddenly Jack had the words, murmuring fervently into his ear as he held him tightly.

"I've got you; I'm here; I'll always be here, always and forever; I love you; I've got you . . ."

He couldn't promise that it would be alright, but he could promise one thing: alright or not, he wasn't leaving. Not ever.

**-DW-**

It seemed to Rose that it took a long time for Jack's tender words to soothe the Doctor, though it was probably only a few minutes. She longed to know what had happened, what that odd exchange had been about, but this was neither the time nor the place to ask. At last, the Doctor pulled away, wiping his face.

"Thank you," he told Jack, his voice still rough with emotion.

"Anytime," Jack replied.

Rose cleared her throat, and the Doctor's walls slammed back into place.

"Ah, yes, Rose!" he said brightly, bouncing over to her. "Got us pardoned, did you?"

"Yeah. Well, sort of," she tempered. "I just mentioned you were a Time Lord and they got all weird and then Callid came to let you two out, so I think we can go, but he doesn't really say much . . ."

"Callid, you say?" the Doctor questioned, his eyes shining with interest.

"That's his name, yeah. He stepped out; guess he wanted to give us some privacy."

"I see," said the Doctor, in that tone which implied that he saw a great deal more than Rose did. "Let's go and meet our champion, shall we?"

Callid was indeed waiting just outside the door. He snapped to attention as they emerged, his eyes immediately locking onto the Doctor. The Doctor met his gaze evenly, and gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

"Your Highness," he greeted solemnly, without his usual hint of sarcasm.

"My Lord," Callid replied, bowing low.

"Sorry, what?" asked Rose, gaping. Jack, standing behind the Doctor with a protective hand on his back in a show of silent support, looked just as bewildered as she felt.

"Callid's a prince," the Doctor explained. "_The _Prince, actually. Lutare's a meritocracy, see, so they don't like to call their rulers kings. They think it implies a sort of permanence. Not that 'prince' is any less permanent, really, but it's the principle of the thing. Isn't that right, Callid?"

"Quite, my Lord."

"Oh, no need for that. I'm the Doctor."

Callid's eyebrows raised fractionally, the first sign of expression Rose had seen from him.

"Indeed."

There was a moment of awkward silence before the Doctor broke it, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets, his grin wide and false.

"Well, thank you ever so much for the pardon, Highness, lovely planet, but I think we'd best be off. Unless you're planning to dissect me or something, in which case we'd still best be off, but I'm afraid it would be on rather less friendly terms."

Callid smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

"I would sooner keep a black hole on my planet than you, Doctor."

The Doctor stiffened almost imperceptibly, his smile dropping and his gaze going sharp.

"Goodbye, Callid."

Rose could feel Callid's eyes following them as they walked away. No one stopped them as they walked out of the building and through the quiet, misty streets. They didn't speak until they reached the TARDIS, a splash of blue against a grey world.

"The thing about meritocracies," said the Doctor, pausing with his key in hand to stare out at their monochromatic surroundings, "they're ruled by the cleverest people, not necessarily the nicest."

"What do you mean?" asked Jack. He hadn't lost contact with the Doctor since they left that room, and even now his hand was laid casually on his elbow.

"Why did you think he didn't need bodyguards?" asked the Doctor, and sighed when he was met with blank looks. "See the mist?"

"You said it was harmless," said Rose, frowning.

"Oh, it is," the Doctor assured her, eyes dark. "To us. To the Lutarians, it's a mild sedative. Nothing dangerous; just enough to keep them calm. Peaceful."

"But – but that's awful!"

"Yep," the Doctor agreed. "It does work, though. They have world peace. No war, very little violent crime, carefully regulated debates – 'course, they also don't have a lot of art, music, literature . . . and it won't last, anyway. The drugs make them calm, not stupid. The public will catch on in about two years, and Callid will be overthrown within three. The good thing about a clever ruler: they know when they're beaten.

"Speaking of clever rulers," he continued, pushing the door open and stepping into the TARDIS, Jack finally letting go of him as he bounded up to the console. "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Pericles? Brilliant man; absolutely astounding mind. Slippery as anything, mind you, but not a bad sort, when you get right down to it. Don't think you'd like him much, though, he's horribly sexist. Product of his time, I suppose, but really . . ."

Rose took one last look at the dreary, hushed world of forced calm and shut the TARDIS door, leaving it behind them for good.

**-DW-**

Later, when they had all eaten something and Rose was in bed, Jack paused in the doorway of the console room.

It had been too long and too trying a day for the Doctor to still be awake, but there he was, fiddling with the controls and looking empty and exhausted in a way he never did when he thought Jack could see him. He looked at home in the dim, otherworldly light, but it was the same way a ghost looked at home in its chosen haunt – he seemed as though he'd evaporate if he were to step out the door.

Jack wished he could make him look solid. He wished he could make him whole. He wished that he could pull him close, that he could drag him back his room and love him the way he deserved to be loved until the tears came easily and not in choking, shamed sobs, that he could chase away the pain and the guilt and the fear with gentle kisses and whispered promises . . .

_If wishes were horses,_ he thought bitterly.

"Do you want something, or are you just going to stand there admiring my bum?"

Jack tried to force a chuckle, but it got tangled with a sob somewhere in his throat. The Doctor turned, a concerned frown on his face. An instant later it melted into guilt and sorrow.

"Oh, Jack," he sighed. "I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted for you to see all that."

"It's not your fault," said Jack with a shake of his head, vaguely aware that he was talking about much more than the psychic trauma of the day. The Doctor seemed aware of it, too, his lips twisting into a mirthless smile as he averted his eyes.

"Isn't it?" He continued before Jack could protest. "I could take it away," he said, tugging on his ear with one hand and fidgeting with the controls with the other. "If you want me to. You'd still know that you'd been inside my head but you wouldn't remember it."

Jack frowned, trying to see through the Doctor's discomfort to whatever lay beneath it. Any suggestion of changing people's memories, in any capacity, usually resulted in a visceral reaction from the Doctor, but now he was offering to do just that.

"Do you want to?" Jack questioned. Perhaps the Doctor viewed what had happened as violation. Perhaps he didn't want Jack knowing everything he had been forced to do and everyone he had lost. After all, he would have never, ever revealed such things willingly.

"It's up to you," said the Doctor, still not looking at him. If he was trying to sound casual then he was failing, miserably.

"Doctor . . ." Jack moved forward, stilling the Doctor's restless hand with one of his own and using the other to cup his face, forcing the Doctor to meet his eyes and at the same time trying to draw him out with the intimate touch, running a thumb along his pale cheek as his fingertips brushed against his temple –

— _thought you'd hate me if you knew; ought to hate me; how can you touch me like that knowing what I am, knowing what I did; should have shot me on the spot –_

Jack stumbled back, reeling.

"What the –?"

"Sorry!" said the Doctor, who had leaped backwards as well, his eyes wide and horrified. "Sorry, sorry, my shields aren't quite up yet; there must be some residual connection; it should be gone within a couple days. I didn't realize; I'm so sorry –"

"Stop it!" Jack snapped. "Stop apologizing, stop –" _Stop hating yourself. Please._ "Doc, I . . . I don't want you to take it away." _I won't let you carry that alone._

The Doctor seemed to hear the unspoken end of his sentence, he glanced away, his jaw clenching.

"Don't say that just for my sake," he said. "I know it's not fair to you. You shouldn't have to know all that. You shouldn't have to – to see that every time you look at me."

"Do want to know what I see when I look at you?" asked Jack, and then continued before the Doctor could respond. "I see a man who would give his last breath to save a stranger."

_Jack gasped back to life to find the Doctor gone. Fighting panic, he stumbled out into the hallway to find him performing CPR on an unconscious Martha Jones. The young medical student must have followed them and gotten caught in some scuffle, he thought hazily as his head began to spin once more. His last sight before the darkness overtook him was the Doctor's face, twisted in desperation as he struggled to force nonexistent air into the young woman's lungs. _

"I see a man who would show compassion to his worst enemy."

"_It got away," was all the Doctor said, but Jack could see the frustration and weariness and despair in his eyes. Jack had also seen the way his gaze had flickered over the Dalek weapons earlier, just for an instant – but he hadn't touched them; hadn't taken up what was possibly the only sure-fire way to kill his most hated foe. Instead, he had gone to the basement armed with nothing but a screwdriver and a single offer of mercy._

"I see a man who sacrificed everything to protect the Universe."

_It took Jack longer than he would have liked to detach himself from the flirty native, and by the time he made it over to the Doctor the Time Lord was already far, far away, mentally if not physically. His eyes were fixed on the sky above them; on a specific constellation, in fact. Following his gaze, Jack recognized it with a jolt: Kasterborous. He placed a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, and was met with a slight start as the older man came back to himself. The Doctor gave him a small smile, but it didn't reach his ancient, haunted eyes._

"You're the best man I've ever known, Doctor. You deserve to be happy," Jack asserted forcefully.

The Doctor had closed his eyes and turned away, refusing to respond, but at those words he gave a tiny, involuntary shake of his head. Jack was in front of him in three strides, gripping his shoulders and turning him to face him. He was trembling beneath his hands.

"Doctor, look at me," he commanded. The Doctor complied, and Jack met his eyes without flinching. "You. Deserve. Happiness. And I know that I can't give you that, but I can promise you this: I will _always_ love you."

The Doctor gave a strangled sound, and Jack caught him as his knees buckled. He sank down onto the grating, holding him close. The Doctor didn't speak, nor did he cry. He simply _clung_, his thin hands tangled in Jack's shirt, his face buried in his neck as his breath came in painful gasps. Jack murmured soothingly, stroking his hair and carefully avoiding the contact points (once was an accident, twice would have been an invasion).

Jack knew that he couldn't make everything right. He couldn't stop Rose's time from eventually running out, or protect the Doctor from the Universe which seemed so intent on hurting him. He couldn't bring back the people whom he had lost, or erase the choices he had been forced to make. He couldn't fix what was irreparably broken.

But he could do this, now and forever. He could be there when the pain became overwhelming. He could be an anchor and a shield. He could and would love the Doctor, always.

Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.


End file.
